The Walls Kept Tumbling Down
by De Fideli
Summary: "What do you really want to know?" Her mouth forms a full-fledged smirk now, as her fingertip replaces the glass with his tense jawline. She doesn't want him to know anything at all. [Rated M for smut]


**My first heavily smutty one-shot, to celebrate the New Year. Tell me how I did on this one! Should I never ever attempt mature fics again? Did you sort of like it on a lukewarm level? Review here or find me on enjolrastic and let's chat. I would love more people in my life in 2014 (:**

* * *

"The piece on Eponine Jondrette—who wants it?" His editor addresses the conference room. Scattered hands fly up eagerly, including his friend's. Enjolras looks at Courfeyrac, unamused by the man's hardly subtle enthusiasm.

"May I remind you that a feature isn't synonymous for a date," he whispers loudly to his friend, who merely chortles in response.

"Idealistically, a date's what I'm going for, but I'll take an interview over nothing," he points out, loosening his necktie. Rationale is futile, and he releases a huff of disdain.

In his opinion, the magazine would do much better with the unnecessary society pages; he wouldn't mind an entire edition with pure political dialogue from nationally syndicated writers. Leaving the family publishing empire to make his own name, however, had its trade-offs—including working at a young magazine susceptible to guilty pleasure articles.

"Enjolras," his editor calls his name, and he looks up. "You'll do it."

The entire room falls silent, awaiting a punch line that does not come. Even he, who is quick to perceive seriousness, leaves his mouth slightly parted waiting to be interrupted by a "Just kidding." He prompts it. "Are you joking?" he asks, as the entire room turns back to the editor.

"You came here telling me you can write anything," his boss replies, almost disinterestedly. "We'll find someone to replace your social commentary for this edition; Prouvaire?"

"Yes sir," his friend replies politely, and like a bitter child, he sends a betrayed glare.

* * *

"I don't see the problem at all," Jean Prouvaire tries to argue during lunch, pulling out a bottle of a green substance from his messenger bag.

Grantaire's nose wrinkles at the sight. "What is that?" he asks, with more disgust than curiosity, though his eyes fix on the concoction with an obvious fascination.

"Wheatgrass," Prouvaire replies nonchalantly, before returning his attention to Enjolras. "Look, Théophile. Normally, I think it's unnecessary to give celebrities any attention, but this is different. She's one of the finest actresses in the industry and she's yet to grant anyone an in-depth interview. Her publicist decided it was about time, and our magazine's up and coming. It hardly looks like a sellout on her part."

"It's true, you lucky bastard," Courfeyrac mutters under his breath.

* * *

He doesn't want to tell them the cruel truth of their age-old dance. He thought that perhaps, the fates would be merciful and keep them apart. It would have been the sweetest relief, to push out of his mind the old friend his inexplicable love belonged to.

She agrees to drinks at a low-key dive bar, the nearby railroad providing loud white noise blended with Eddie Money singing "Take Me Home Tonight" from the jukebox.

A stranger in a baseball cap takes the seat beside him at the edge of the bar, and he curtly notifies them he is awaiting someone after putting down the beer he'd been nursing. The stranger grins, and takes off her hat. "So it did work," she replies, satisfied. He admits, he's somewhat impressed by her ability to slip into a room completely unnoticed, given her status.

He proceeds with his phone, beginning his questions after she orders a whiskey on the rocks. He clears his throat, pressing Record. "How did you get started with acting?"

She gives him an unamused scoff, and he is quick to frown. "And here I thought you were of Reveler magazine—that you were going to ask me questions that mattered," she rolls her eyes. "I expected more from you, Enjolras."

For a brief second, he opens his mouth, but shuts it and engages once more in his thought process. "Would you like a rags-to-riches spread of how you overcame adversity from the wrong side of town and managed to win the hearts of the nation on the silver screen?" he grumbles at the cheesiness of it all.

The delay in her response comes due to her staring at her drink excessively, wondering whether to pour it on the man who had offended her so. "And tell me, Théophile," she begins, her enunciation resembling an unenthralled purr. "Tell me why I'm not worthy of your grittiest questions. You've been so relentless in everything else you've written. With everyone, all the time, except fragile Éponine."

"This is meant to be a society piece, Ms. Thenardier," he tries his hardest to explain to her politely, restraining from her the rise that she so painfully obviously wishes to draw from him.

"Jondrette," she is quick to correct him. She lazily traces the rim of her glass and looks at him, a glint of deviousness paired with the smallest curve of her lips. "C'mon," she teases him, her south-of-town accent creeping into her jests as she leans in closer. "What do you really want to know?" Her mouth forms a full-fledged smirk now, as her fingertip replaces the glass with his tense jawline.

She doesn't want him to know anything at all.

He hates relinquishing control—and despite his lack of support for such a useless article, his drive is overpowered by an aversion to let a celebrity, let alone one he knew to be much more, simply step around him tight-lipped, rendering him without any information whatsoever. "Anything," he shrugs, refusing the bait as she takes a long sip of her drink. "Anything you're willing to give."

"It's a good thing I'm generous," she replies coyly, as she places her stray hand at the edge of his leg—he swears he can feel electricity crawling through his thigh, as he stiffens.

"I'm not interested," he forces out, the blood rushing into his cheeks. It is a game. Everything is a game to her, another layer unwilling to be shed, another cold front meant to drive even the bravest souls away from their intended path.

She trails her way up, but stops abruptly as her attention leaves Enjolras. He notices, and follows her stare to another man who had just entered the bar. No more than a second passes before his recognition of the youthful face: Marius Pontmercy, whose trust fund had been invested into the magazine, walks in with a woman's arm looped around his. They tucked themselves away into a booth, joining others that Enjolras could only assume to be Marius' friends.

In a moment of keen perception, the corners of his own lips turn upward. "Out of all the magazines, and you picked ours," he muses. "And to think you chose us for our riveting writing."

She narrows her eyes at him in hostility. "You don't know anything," she refutes. He finds the opening in the seams of her guard.

"Do tell me then, since you're so generous," Enjolras quips.

"Well, here's a curveball," she returns his stubborn tone. "Marius Pontmercy hasn't been in this dive bar for years—so if you think I've intentionally set up a potential run-in, you're off base."

"But this is all for him, isn't it, Éponine?" He presses on. "Everything. You're respected for keeping your personal life completely private, but it is solely for the fact that you're still waiting for him."

"You have the most incorrect idea," Eponine juts out her chin.

"Then leave," Enjolras challenges her, not sparing a minute with his own thoughts. "If it's not about him, if it's not all some grand show, then leave."

The bitterness in her short laugh produces a stinging sensation in his chest, and he comes to the understanding that there is no bluff for him to call out on. She hops off of the bar stool and takes her first step, before turning back around. "I left four years ago. What makes you think I have any problem with leaving?" Before he can even part his mouth in response, she is half-way out of the door, the ponytail underneath her baseball cap being the last of what he sees of her.

He sighs, taking another swig of beer, and his rationale does not spare him time to breathe before it attacks his thought processes. _You still need a story, asshole_, a voice of mockery rings in his ears. He lets out a pained groan, the bartender flashing him a reprimanding glance. "What?" Enjolras demands. "It's not my fault!" He storms out of the bar, assuming she couldn't have gone far.

"Shit!" he hears her familiar voice spit and looks to his left, three blocks down where she holds up a cellphone in an apparent search for phone signal.

"Eponine!" he yells, jogging towards her. Her head turns back and for a moment, their stares meet as she spares a moment for hesitation. Soon enough, she snaps her head back the other way and begins her brisk walk once more, tucking her cellphone back into her pocket. "Eponine, wait!" he calls once more, yet her pace accelerates. He sighs, and begins to sprint to close the distance. "Just tell me what to write and we're done," he pants when he is a few feet away, his words barely audible through his heavy breathing.

She understands clearly, though. "Write whatever you want, Enjolras, you've formed your opinion about me long before I had a say in it," she replies, refusing to slow down despite his pleas.

"I just want the truth," Enjolras replies, before sighing while coming to a stop. "Eponine, I'm sorry."

Her steps cease, as she runs a tongue through her teeth with an irritated purse of her lips. She laughs humorlessly. "You know what the funny thing is, Theophile?" she asks him, unwilling to wait for a response. "You're right. I enjoy being on the screen, and maybe part of it is because some day Marius is going to see a movie with his fiancée and realize maybe things aren't right. That he overlooked something all those years in college. But do you think I'm some bratty little girl fighting for a toy? That all of _this_ is for him?"

Enjolras swallows the lump in his throat. "No," he replies hoarsely, shaking his head.

"I'm alone. I don't mingle with society because I'm not invited. I don't make any friends because I don't trust anyone. I don't grant interviews because there is absolutely nothing I'd hate more than to have people like you pick into the sickening emptiness that makes me feel hollow and brittle," she replies, the genuine melancholy weighing down her words. "And maybe the only reason why I'm so good at this whole art is because that is all I have anymore."

He doesn't respond, his lips parted with a thought stuck in between the gap of vulnerability.

"Is that enough for your spread?" she spits out.

"Eponine," he nearly whispers, stepping forward only to observe the reflection of the streetlights beneath her eyelids. "You didn't have to be alone. Your friends, we-,"

"Marius' friends," she corrects him, remembering sage and soft-spoken Combeferre and cheery Joly completing the apartment that her oldest friend had inhabited. And then Enjolras, the door at the end of the hallway, always shut with muffled classical music barely heard from the living room.

"Do not assume that we would have tolerated you solely to please Marius," he replies, protesting to what he knew were untruthful conclusions. "You hardly gave us any credit. Minimal, in my case."

She scoffs. "If I recall correctly, you weren't the most supportive of the troop. I got the point when you told me my efforts were worthless," she replies sourly. "I get it, you think I'm a shit actor. I can live with that. You're doing things to change the world and here I am, selling myself to the masses."

He shakes his head, groaning. "For the love of god, Eponine, that's not what I meant," he protests. "I knew, day one, when Marius dragged me to that damn production of Othello, that there is nothing more suited for you than what you do. And All My Sons confirmed it, and the Skin of our Teeth and every single damn year of the Christmas Carol production. You are meant for the biggest of things."

She stares at him, a combination of shock and confusion caught in the intensity of her gaze, and the way her lips begin to separate leaves him no choice but to seal the opening with his own mouth shortly after she attempts at beginning a phrase with "But Mar-,"

He kisses her, and when he closes his eyes, he sees her on stage for the first time again, the night that he swore their eyes connected for much more than a second and she could enter into his very soul—with his complete permission and blessing. He sees her sitting on the couch as he walks into the apartment and she thumbs through a script, the biting of her lip and the thick-framed glasses sitting on her nose as an indication of her focus, and he wants nothing more than to take a look inside her creative mind and watch all of her walls tumble down, stripped down to nothing more than the bare human condition. He sees her with her puffy red eyes, seeking Combeferre's advice as she's offered to be flown across the country to her first movie and he wants to embrace all of the worry and anxiety out of her system and urge her to follow her wildest dreams.

Her shoulders relax as she finds her fingers intertwining at the back of his neck, catching strands of his golden hair in the small spaces between. He coaxes her own participation, making the most convincing case with his tongue as he urges her to make a move of her own. He feels the pull of her hands bring him closer, and he wonders if she is close enough to hear the pounding of his heart that all but deafens him.

Before he can speculate even further, her teeth graze is bottom lip and he finds himself increasing the pressure of his fingertips on her waist. She acknowledges his move with a soft whimper through her occupied lips. He opens his eyes for a moment to separate fiction from reality, and he withdraws with a small, satisfied smile at the incredibly real art in the form of full lips and a tint of pink he can make out through the dim streetlight.

She looks up at him, her gaze saturated with inquiry. "Marius never went to All My Sons," Eponine said to herself softly. "He was abroad."

His shoulders slump in defeat. It would always be about Marius.

"But you did?" she asks in contemplation.

He nods his head hesitantly. "Twice, actually," he replies. "Once on Marius' wishes, the other on my own accord."

A corner of her lips begin to turn upward and she seizes his collar, pulling down to meet his lips once more. He obliges, and she finds herself against the light post as his hands run down along the hills and valleys of the sides of her body. He'd long ago tore the hat from her head, spending a short moment of separation from the smooth surface of her skin to reposition himself along the intersection of her neck and her ear.

The cars have long diminished into minimal traffic, and the streets are empty enough for him to hear a soft, appreciative moan as he works down along the path of her neck. "Enjolras," she breathes. "We shouldn't do this here."

He pulls away and nods, about to retrieve his phone when she places a hand over his, shaking her head and waving her own around, her thumb already set firmly on speed dial.

She shares a glance with him on the ride home, his lust radiating and causing warmth at the bottom of her stomach. They do not speak, but the way she traps her bottom lip with her front teeth has leaves him aching with desire.

He returns to his business as they enter the elevator, not wasting time to leave any place above her shoulders neglected. She closes her eyes, knowing she couldn't possibly be imagining Enjolras, of all people, placing his mouth and hands exactly where they need to be. They barely recognize the opening of the elevator doors to the hallway of her condominium, and she casts a look of pure lust as they part for a moment while she takes his hand and leads him to her residence.

Before she can retrieve her keys, he places both hands on her hips, finding the nape of her neck with his breath as shivers travel down her spine. She forgets how to apply force onto the doorknob when his left hand makes its way up her chest rapidly, tracing the shape with the lightest touch. He laces his other hand's fingers with hers, pushing down the door knob handle with her assistance.

They cross the threshold, and soon after the door is shut it is used as support to hold Eponine up, surrendering to the exploits of Enjolras' tongue. He leans down to press his lips to hers in a chaste kiss, before resting his forehead upon hers as his fingers weave through the hair just above her neck. "Eponine," he calls for her attention softly. "Do you want this?"

She looks back at him, the smallest movements indicating a nod of the head. "All of it," she whispers back. Her breath hitches involuntarily as she feels one of his hands work its way just above the waistband of her jeans, as if unsure with which article of clothing to eliminate first. She, on the other hand, needs hardly any time to decide as she quickly works through the buttons of his dress shirt, taking a moment to run her fingertips along his bare chest. He follows suit in ridding her of her shirt, and tosses it on the floor without his eyes leaving the most beautiful sight.

His mouth makes its way past her collarbone as his fingers toy with her waistband, and she lets out a soft, frustrated moan at the remaining barriers of clothing interrupting the voyage of his tongue across her body.

Finally, he unbuttons her jeans, his hands brushing past the outer sides of both of her legs as he pulls them all the way down at an almost painfully slow pace and she finds herself fighting the urge to kick them off herself.

He doesn't completely return to her level, staying crouched down as his attention is fixed on the contrast in texture and color of her dark blue lace panties and her smooth, tanned skin. He runs his hands slowly beneath them as he places a trail of kisses along the inner surface of her thigh. She places her hands on his shoulders, grounding herself to reality and holding onto him for physical support as she shuts her eyes tightly over the overwhelming sensation. "Fuck," she struggles to breathe out to the ceiling, her head tilted back and her mouth left agape even without speech.

She can feel him come closer, her skin growing more sensitive to his warm breath as his fingers begin to pull down the delicate obstacle between her core and his hunger. He runs his tongue painfully close, but it is his finger's entry that she feels first as she exhales out a moan, followed by a sharp intake of breath. She feels him move inside of her as his tongue finally meets between her folds and she cries out his name.

He steals a glance at her face, her eyes shut in frustration and the bite of her lip that drove him past control in the first place re-ignites his engine. He marks the new territory with the stroke of his tongue, his fingers working in tandem until his name pierces the air in the combination of a relieved exhale and a primal scream. He continues, consuming the effects of her climax as she rests against the door, hoping no unfortunate soul had been roaming the halls a few seconds earlier.

"Holy shit," she says in between breaths, as he returns to her eye level with a satisfied smirk on her face. She pulls back the hair that had clung to her forehead with perspiration as he watches her chest rise and fall to the tides of air escaping her. Only the shortest glance is enough to tell her that he wants much more. Wordlessly, she takes his hand and leads him further into the apartment, until she swings the door open to a room with a large bed, clothes littered on the floor and a script on the bedside table. He has time to assume that she does not spend much time with company surrounded by the poster-clad walls, before she makes her way to the bed, her palms planted on the covers and her torso ready for him to possess.

He pushes her down gently, joining her on the mattress as she assists in discarding the jeans that unsuccessfully try to suppress his growing desire. She places her hand on his hardness as he hisses at the sensation, while she hooks the other hand's fingers on the boxers that are the last remaining barrier between the two of them.

"Eponine," he calls her from her own focus, his voice hoarse and strained. "Is this really what you want?"

She leans into him, her mouth inches away from his ear. "I want you," she purrs, grazing her teeth across the skin of his earlobe before he takes her confession into account, pinning her arms down with his hands.

He wastes no time in entering her as she screams out his name over the sensation of fullness. "Theo," she calls out to him, but the dilation of his pupils and the urgency of his kisses on her neck lead her to the conclusion that he is long gone.

Every thrust happens with an unbridled force, increasing in speed as both of their breaths become more erratic. She is clawing at his back, clinging to him with her heels digging into his back as she tries to fight off the rapid ascent.

"Eponine," he draws her out of her increasing haze. "Eponine, look at me." She meets his stare with her own, overcome with desire and an urgent, unsatisfied craving.

Upon watching his own gaze, she feels the intense buildup and as he leans in to places his lips once more on her neck, he thrusts deeply into her and her vision turns white. "Fuck! Enjolras," she yells, her body trembling at the sheer power of the climax.

His own breaths grow quicker as she rides out the tingling in her extremities, meeting his thrusts with her own hips. "Ep," he grunts out, forcing the words from the back of his throat. "Ep, I love you." The words are barely audible, overpowered by the finality of his guttural moan as he collapses on top of her once he finally releases himself.

She hears the deep breathing of his exhaustion as he places soft kisses along her shoulder in between exhalations.

"Damn," she mutters, as he lifts his head to look at her.

He laughs softly. "Has the regret already set in?"

"That depends," she replies as his back meets the mattress, and she props herself on her forearm, the ends of her hair brushing against his near shoulder. "Did you mean it?"

He doesn't need to ask. "I do," he replies. "Do you want me to?" She thinks for a moment, and he assumes her silence to be rejection. "I'm sorry, I know it shouldn't be me." He sighs in defeat.

She rolls onto him, her chin placed on top of his chest. "Yes," she says with conviction, intertwining her fingers with his. He uses a free hand to absentmindedly trace along her spine, as she settles into the comfortable space beside him, her head placed above his beating heart, the natural metronome settling her breathing into a steady rhythm.

* * *

He sits in front of the desk in his room, a blank document in front of him as he types sentences just as quickly as he deletes them. All he can think of is her flesh, a few days later bathed in sunlight and wrapped in sheets this time of his own bed, only a few feet away from him.

On one hand, he understands her to the deepest level of intimacy. On the other hand, the fire that he feels with her cannot be translated into the form of words, into something any mass of people would even begin to comprehend.

She is much more complex than any political commentary he'd ever written, and to portray her in anything other than the goddess he believes her to be would be the greatest waste of his time.

He shuts his laptop, frustrated, before climbing back onto the bed, deciding that perhaps more study of her would ameliorate his mental block. She lets out a satisfied hum the moment the first of his fingertips come into contact with the curve of her hips.

* * *

"Enjolras," the editor snaps him out of his solitary daze, bringing him back to the reality of the conference room. The other writers look on curiously. "That was one of the most compelling pieces about a celebrity that I've ever read."

"Thank you, sir," Enjolras bows his head humbly at the pleasantly surprising reaction, the room silent with the display of civility. They expected, perhaps, an outburst or complaint at the uselessness of the endeavor, maybe even a nomination to eliminate society pieces in their entirety.

"Think you could write another one for us in the future?" his boss asks.

Enjolras is quick to shake his head. "I'm sorry, I couldn't," he replies in confidence. "This is going to be the only one." The editor knows better than to argue a change in his cemented position.

* * *

They are gathered for lunch at the same usual deli, Grantaire devouring a plate of the boneless wings special and Enjolras sending emails on his phone as Prouvaire explains the health benefits of wheatgrass.

"You'll never know until you try it!" Prouvaire sings, offering the opened bottle of wheatgrass juice to Courfeyrac.

He looks at the concoction hesitantly. "Fine," he begins to drink the thick substance.

"Hey Theo," a woman in a baseball hat sneaks up on the lunch crew, her arms wrapping around Enjolras' shoulders from behind, placing a kiss on his cheek.

"Ep," he acknowledges her, a rare smile on his face as he places a chaste kiss on her lips. "I didn't see you come in."

Courfeyrac's eyes widen mid-drink, as he begins to choke on the thick, green juice. He coughs out, "Eponine Jondrette?" before gasping for air and coughing more.

A look of confusion crosses Eponine's face as she wonders whether to respond to the stranger or call for medical help.

"He's alright," Grantaire assures her after swallowing down his chicken.

"It's nice to finally meet you," Prouvaire smiles.


End file.
